THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


Vv  „ 


'<•,-? 


§^i^mi: 


7^^-^ 


Hii 


.isr,^ 


*-;ii^-f 


BEECHENBROOK^ 


|>Iii|mc  0f  the  SffilHi\ 


BY 


MARGARET   J.    PRESTON 


BALTIMORE: 

KELLY    &   PIET,    rUBLIS|jERS 

174  Baltimore  Street  M 
18GG. 


I' 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  ISGfi,  by 
KET.I.V    &    PIKT, 

In  the  Clerk".-*  Ottico  of  the  District  Court  fur  the  ])i.<trict  of  3I:irvhind. 


TO 

K  viEB,y:  sou  r  h  k  h  n   w  o  m  a  n  , 

"WHO    HAS    BEEN' 
I    DEDICATE    THIS    RHYME, 

PUBLISHED   DURING  THE   PROGRESS  OF  THE   STRUGGLE 

AND    NOW    RE-PRODUCED — AS   A 

J^uiut  pcmoriall   of  ^«ffcrinn.«, 

OF    WHICH    THERE    CA\    BE 

N  0     F  n  R  G  E  T  F  U  L  N  ESS. 

M.  J.  P. 


BEECHENBROOK 


RHYME    OF    THE    WAR. 


I. 

There  is  sorrow  in  Boecheiibrook  Cottage  ;  the  day- 
Has  been  briglit  witli  tlie  earliest  glory  of  May  ; 
The  blue  of  the  sky  is  as  tender  a  blue 
As  ever  tlic  sunshine  came  shimmering  through: 
The  songs  of  the  birds  and  the  hum  of  the  bees, 
As  they  merrily  dart  in  and  out  of  the  trees, — 
The  blooms  of  the  orchard,  as  sifting  its  snows, 
It  mingles  its  odors  with  hawthorn  and  rose, — 
The  voice  of  the  brook,  as  it  lapses  unseen, — 
The  laughter  oF  children  at  play  on  the  green, — 
Insist  on  a  picture  so  cheerful,  so  fair. 
Who  ever  wouhl  dream  that  a  grief  could  be  there  ! 
1- 


6  A    F.IIY.MK    or    Till-:    WAR. 

The  last  yellow  .<inil)eaiii  slides  down  iiom  x]iv  wall. 
The  purple  of  evening::  is  rea<ly  to  fall  : 
The  gladness  of  daylij;lit  is  LCoiie.  aixl  the  gloom 
Of  sometliing  like  sadness  is  over  the  rnoni. 
Right  hravely  all  day.  with  a  smile  on  her  l)row. 
Has  Aliee  been  true  to  her  duty, — hut  now 
Her  tasks  are  all  ended, — naught  inside  or  out, 
For  tlie  thoughtfullest  h:>ve  to  he  husy  ahout ; 
Theknapsaek  wcdl  furnished,  the  eanteen  all  bright. 
The  soldier's  grey  dress  and  his  gauntlets  in  sight, 
The    hLanket   tight    straj)i)ed,    and   the   haversack 

stored, 
And.  lying  beside  them,  the  eaj*  and  the  sword  ; 
Xo  last,  little  office, — no  further  commandsj — 
Xo  service  to  steady  the  tremulous  hands  ; 
All  wife-work, — the  sweet  work  that  busied  her  so, 
Is  finished  : — the  dear  one  is  ready  to  go. 

Not  a  sob  has  escaped  her  all  day, — not  a  moan  ; 

But  now  the  tide  rushes, — for  she  is  alone. 

On  the  fresh,  shining  knapsack  she  pillows  her  head. 

And  Aveeps  as  a  mourner  might  Aveej)  for  the  dead. 

»She  heeds  not  the  three-year  old  baity  at  play. 

As  donning  the  cap.  on  the  carpet  he  lay  : 

Till  she  feels  on  her  forehead,  his  fingers'  soft  tips. 

And  on  her  shut  eyelids,  the  touch  of  his  lips. 


A    RHYME    OF    THE   WAR.  / 

'^  Mamma  is  so  sorry  ! — Mamma  is  so  sad  ! 
But  Arcliie  can. make  her  look  up  and  be  glad  : 
Txe  been  praying  to  God,  as  you  told  me  to  do, 
That   Papa   may   come   hack    when   the   battle   is 

thro':— 
He  says  when  we  pray,  that  our  prayers  shall  be 

heard  ; 
And  Mamma,  don't  you  alicays  know,  God  keeps 

his  w^ord?" 

Around  the  young  comforter  stealthily  press 
The  arms  of  his  father  wdth  sudden  caress  ; 
Then  fast  to  Iris  heart, — love  and  duty  at  strife, — - 
He  snatches  with  fondest  emotion,  his  wdfe. 


'-  My  own  love  !  my  precious  ! — I  feel  I  am  strong  ; 

I  know  I  am  brave  in  opposing  the  wrong  ; 

I  could  stand  where  the  battle  w^as  fiercest,  nor  feel 

One  quiver  of  nerve  at  the  flash  of  the  steel ; 

I  could  gaze  on  the  enemy  guiltless  of  fears, 

But  I  quail  at  the  sight  of  your  passionate  tears : 

My    calmness    forsakes    me,— my    thoughts    are 

a-wdiirl, 
And  the  stout-hearted  man  is  as  weak  as  a  girl. 


b  A     IIUV.MK    <.F    Till-:    WAn. 

I  ^■e  Ik'l'Ii  jn'ttud  of  your  lortitihU'  :   lu-vcr  ;i  traro 
Of  yiol(lin<;.  all  day,  coiiM  J  read  in  your  face; 
But  a  lo(dv  tliat  was  res(dut('.  dauntless  and  liigli, 
As  ever  flashed  iortli  fnun  a  ]»atriot"s  eye. 
I  know  liow  you  cling  to  ine.^ — know  tliat  to  ])art 
Is  tearing  the  tcnderest  cords  of  your  luart  : 
Through  the  length  and  the  hreadth  of  our  ^'alley 

to-day. 
No  hand  will  a  costlier  sacritice  lay 
On  the  altar  of  C()untry  :   ami  Alice, — sweet  wife  ! 
I  never  have  worshi]ij)ed  you  so  in  my  life  ! 
Poor    heart. — that    has   held   up   so    hrave   in    the 

]>ast. — 
ro(U'  heart!  must  it  hreak  with  its  hurdcn  at  last?" 

The  arms  thrown  about  him,  hut  tighten  their  hold, 

The  cheek  that  he  kisses,  is  ashy  and  cold. 

And  howed  with   the   grief  she   so   long  has  sup- 

])ressed. 
She  wee])S  herself  (juiet  and  calm  on  his  breast. 
At  length,  in  a  voice  just  as  steady  and  clear 
As  if  it  had  never  l>een  choked  by  a  tear. 
81ie  raises  her  eyes  with  a  softened  control. 
And    thr(»ugli    them    her    Inisband    hndcs    int<.)    her 

soul. 


A    RHYME   OF   THE   WAR.  '  ^ 

<'  I  feel  that  we  eacli  for  the  other  couhl  die  ; 
Your  heart  to  my  own  makes  the  instant  reply  : 
But  dear  as  you  are,  Love -my  life  and  my  light,— 
I  would  not  consent  to  your  stay,  if  I  might : 
Ko  !— arm  for  the  conflict,  and  on,  with  the  rest ; 
Virginia  has  need  of  her  bravest  and  best ! 
My  heart-it  must  bleed,  and  my  cheek  will  be  wet. 
Yet  never,  believe  me,  with  selfish  regret : 
My  ardor  abates  not  one  jot  of  its  glow, 
Though  the  tears  of  the  wife  and  the  woman  loiM 
flow. 

^^  Our  cause  is  so  holy,  so  just,  and  so  true,— 

Thank  God !  I  can  give  a  defender  like  you  ! 

For   home,    and   for    children -for   freedom,-for 

bread, — 
For  the  house  of  our  God,-for  the  graves  of  our 

dead, — 
For  leave  to  exist  on  the  soil  of  our  birth,— 
For  everything  manhood  holds  dearest  on  earth  : 
When  these  are  the  things  that  we  fight  for— dare  I 
Hold  back  my  best  treasure,  with  plaint  or  with 

sigh  ? 
My    cheek    would    blush    crimson,— my    spirit    be 

galled. 
If  he  were  not  there  when  the  muster  was  called  ! 


10  .  A     Kll\  MK    OK    Tin:    \V.\K. 

When  \\\'  pk'adcfl  Im-  jicacc.  C'vci-v  ri^lit  was  (U*ni(_Ml; 
Kvery  ])ressiiii;-  jM-tition  tiinii'il  |»i-nii(lly  aside; 
Kow    (jjod    JihIl^c    lictwixt     us!       (n»d    joospcr    tin.' 
jio'lit  I 

o 

To  l)iave  men  ilicic's  nothing'  remains.  l»ut  tuliglit: 
I    grudge    yon    not.    l>ouglass,     die.    ratlier    than 

yield, — 
And    like    tiie    old    heroes,      eoine    lionn-    on    vour 


The  morning  is  hi-eaking  :    -tlie  tlusli  of  the  (hiwn 
Is  warning  tlie  soldier,  'tis  time  to  l)e  gone  ; 
The  eliildren  around  liini  exj)eetantly  wait, — 
His  liorse,  all  eaparisoned,  ])aws  at  the  gate  : 
AVitli    i'aee    strangely    ])allid.—  iio    sohhings, —  no 

sighs.— 
But  only  a  luminous  mist  in  her  eyes. 
His  wife  is  suhduing  the  heart-throhs  that  swell, 
And  ealming  herself  i'or  a  quiet  farewell. 

There  hills  a  ielt  silenee  :— -the  note  of  a  hird, 
A  tremulous  twitter, — is  all  that  is  lieard  : 
The  eirele  has  knelt  hy  tin.'  holly-l)Usli  there, — 
And    listen. --tliei-e    c-omes    the    low    hreathing    of 
])i-ayer. 


A    RHYME    OF    TlIK    AVAR.  11 

''  Father  I   fold  thine  arms  of  pity 

Round  lis  as  we  h^wly  bow  ; 
Never  have  we  kneeled  before  Thee 

With  snch  burden "d  hearts  as  now  ! 


Joy  has  been  our  constant  portion, 
And  if  ill  must  now  befall^ 

With  a  iilial  acquiescence, 

We  would  thank  thee  for  it  all. 


In  the  path  of  present  duty, 
With  Thy  hand  to  lean  upon, 

Questioning  not  the  hidden  future, 
May  Ave  walk  serenely  on. 

For  this  holy,  happy  home-love, 
Purest  bliss  that  croAvns  my  life, — 

For  these  tender,  trusting  children, — 
For  this  fondest.  iViithful  wiie, — 

Here  I  pour  my  lull  thanksgiving  ; 

And,  when  heart  is  torn  I'rom  heart, 
Be  our  sAveetest  tryst-Avord,  '  3Iizj)ah,'— 

Watch  betAvixt  us  Avhile  Ave  part  I 


12  A    KIIYMK    UF    Till-:    WAR. 

And  if  never  round  this  altar. 

We  slioTild  kneel  as  lieretofore, — • 

If  these  arms  in  benediction 

Fohl  inv  ]ireeiuns  ones  no  more, — 

Thou,  Avlio  in  lier  direst  anguish, 
Sootli'dst  thy  motlier"s  lonely  h)t, 

In  thy  still  unchanged  compassion, 
Son  of  ^lan  I   forsake  them  not  !'' 

The  little  ones  each  he  has  caught  to  his  breast, 
And  clasped  thenv.   and  kissed  them  with  fervent 

caress  ; 
Then  wordless  and  tearless,   with  hearts   running 

o'er. 
They  part  who  have  never  been  parted  before  : 
He  springs  to  his  saddle. — the  rein  is  drawn  tight, — 
And  Beechcnbrook  Cottaoie  is  lost  to  his  sierht. 


A  khymf:  (vf  the  war.  13 


II. 


The  feathery  folijige  has  broadened  its  leaves, 
And  June,  with  its  beautiful  mornings  and  eves, 
Its  magical  atmosphere,  breezes  and  blooms, 
Its  woods  all  delicious  with  thousand  perfumes, — 
First-born    of    the   Summer.— spoiled   pet    of    the 

year, — 
June,  delicate  queen  of  the  seasons,  is  here  ! 

The  sadness  has  passed  from  the  dwelling  away, 

And  quiet  serenity  brightens  the  day  : 

With  innocent  prattle,  her  toils  to  beguile, 

In  the  midst  of  her  children,  the  mother  must  smile. 

With  matronly  cares, — those  relentless  demands 

On  the  strength  of  her  heart  and  the  skill  of  her 

hands, — 
The  hours  come  tenderly,  ceaselessly  fraught, 
And  leave  her  small    space  for  the  broodings  of 

thought. 


14 


A    rJIVMK    nl'    THK    WAR. 


Thank  God  I — ]>iisy  iini::ers  a  solace  ran  tiinl, 

To  lighten  the  l)ur(U'n  of  liody  or  mind  : 

And  Edens  uhl  enrse  proves  a  blessing  instead, — 

'^In  the  sweat  of  thy  hrow  shalt  thon  toil  for  thy 

hi'ead."' 
For  the  hless'd  relief  in  all  lahonrs  that  Inrk'. 
Aye.  thank   Hini.   niihaj»]>y  ones,      tliank   Jlini   tor 

work  : 

Tims  Alice  engages  hei-  tlionglits  and  lici-  jiowrrs. 
And  indnsti-y  kindly  lemls  wings  to  the  honrs  : 
Poor,  ]>etty  eni])loynR'nts  tliey  sometimes  ajijicar, 
And  on  her  hright  needle  there  jdashes  a  tear.   - 
Half   sliame   and   half   jia^^sion  : — what    wonld    she 

not  (hire 
ller  ferviil  eo]n})atriots"  strnggles  to  sliai-ey 
It  irks  her. — the  weakness  of  wonnmhood  then. — 
Yet  such  are  the  tears  that  make  heroes  of  men  ! 


h>he  ieehs  the  liot  Idood  oi  the  inition  l>eat  high  ; 

With  ra})tnre  she  catches  the  rallying  cry  : 

From  mountain  and  valley  and  hamlet  they  come  ! 

On  every  side  echoes  the  roll  of  the  dium. 

A  people  as  firm,  as  united,  as  hold. 

As  ever  drew  hlade  for  the  hlessings  they  hold, 


A    RIIYMi:    OF    TIIK    VVAIl, 


Step  sternly  and  solemnly  I'urtli  in  their  might, 
And  swear  on  their  altars  to  die  fur  the  ris-lit ! 


'O' 


The  clangor  of  mnskets, — the  Hashing  of  steel, — • 

The  clatter  of  spurs  on  the  stout-hooted  lieel, —  ^ 

The  waving  of  hanners, — the  resonant  tramp 

Of  marching  hattalions, — the  fiery  stamp 

Of  steeds  in  tneir  war-harness,  newly  decked  out, — 

The  blast  of  the  hugle, — the  hurry,  the  shout, — 

The  terrible  energy,  eager  and  Avild, 

That  lights  up  the  face  of  man,  woman  and  child,— 

That  burns  on  all  lips,  that  arouses  all  powders  ; 

Did  ever  we  dream  that  such  times  Avould  be  ours? 

One  thought  is  al)sorbing,  with  giant  c;)ntrol, — 

With  deadliest  earnest,  the  national  soul  :  — 

'^  The    right    of    self-government,    crovrn     of    our 

pride, — 
Eight,  bought  with  the  sacredest  l)lood, — is  denied! 
Shall  we  tamely  resign  what  our  enemy  craves? 
No  I   martyrs  Ave  niai/  l)e  I — we  cannot  be  slaves  !"' 

Fair  women  who  miught  but  indulgence  have  seen, 
Who  never  have  learned  what  denial  could  mean, — 


16  A    RHYME    OF    THK    WAK. 

Who  dc'i,!j;ii  not  to  .sli])]»cr  tlicir  i»\sii  dainty  t'ect, 
Whoso  wants  swartliy   liaiidinaids    stand   ready   to 

meet. 
Whose  fingers  decline  the  liglit  k<'iehiet'  to  hem, — 
What  aid  in  this  struggle  is  IiujxmI  i'nr  i'roni  tliem? 

Yet  see  I   liow  tliey  liaste  from  their  howcrs  of  ease, 
Their  dormant  capacities  hied, — to  seize 
Every  feminine  weapon  their  skill  can  command, — 
To  hibor  with  head,  and  with  heart,  and  with  hand. 
They  stitch  the  rough  jacket,  they  shape  the  coarse 

shirt. 
Unheeding  though  delicate  fingers  he  hurt  ; 
They    hind  the   strong   haversack,   knit    the   grey 

glove. 
Nor  falter  nor  jiause  in  their  service  of  love. 

When  ever  were  people  subdued,  overthrown, 
With  women  to  cheer  them  on,  hrave  ;is  our  own? 
With  maidens  and  mothers  at  work  on  their  knees, 
When  ever  Avere  soldiers  as  fearless  as  these? 

June's  flower-wreathed  sceptre  is  drop])ed  with  a 

sigh. 
And  forth  like  an  empress  steps  stately  July  : 


A    REIYxME    OF    THE    WAR.  17 

She  sits  till  unveiled,  amidst  giinsliine  and  balms, 
As  Zenobia  sat  in  lier  City  of  Palms  ! 

Not  yet  has  the  martial  liorizon  growii  dun, 

JSfot  yet  has  the  terrible  confliet  begun  : 

But  the  tumult  of  legions, — the  rnsh  and  the  roar, 

Break  over  our  borders,  like  waves  on  the  shore. 

Alona;  the  Potomac,  tlie  confident  foe 

Stands  marshalled  for  onset,- — prepared,  at  a  blow, 

To  vanquish  the  daring  rebellion,  and  fling 

Utter  ruin  at  once  on  the  arrogant  thing  ! 

How  sovran  the  silence  that  broods  o'er  the  sky. 

And  ushers  the  twenty-lirst  morn  of  July  ; 

— Date,  written  in  iire  on  history's  scroll, — 

— Date,  drawn  in  deep  blood-lines  on  many  a  soul ! 

There  is  qniet  at  Beechenbrook  :   Alice's  brow 
Is  wearing  a  Sabbatli  tranquility  now, 
As  softly  she  reads  from  the  page  on  her  knee, — 
^'  Thou  Avilt  keep  him  in  peace  who  is  stayed  upon 

Thee!" 
When  Sophy  bursts  breathleysly  into  the  room, — 
'^  Oh  !   mother  !   we  hear  it,— we  hear  it  !    ...   the 

boom 


18  A    RHYME    <>F    TFIK    WAH. 

Of  tlic  liist  aii<l  tlic  fiiTcc  caiiiioiiatlin^  ! — it  slmok 
Tlic  -roinid  till  if  tv<Miil.l('<|.  alniio-  l>y  tliL'  Lmok  " 

One  instant  the  listener  .sways  in  her  seat,-— 
The  ])aralysc(l  heart  lias  forgotten  to  beat  ; 
The  next.  Avith  tlie  s]>ee(l  and  the  frenzy  ("f  fear, 
She  gains  tlie  gi-een  hillock,  and  jiauses  to  lieai*. 

Again  and  again  the  reverberant  sound 
Is  fearfully  felt  in  tlie  treninbnis  ground  ; 
Again  and  again  on  their  senses  it  thrills. 
Like  thunderous  echoes  astray  in  tlie  hills. 

Ou  tip-toe, — tlie  summer  wind  lifting  his  liair, 

Witli  nostril  expauded,  and  scenting  the  air 

Like   a   mettled    young   war-lnjise   tluxt   tosses   his 

mane. 
And  frettingly  cham})s  at  the  bit  and  the  rein, — 
Stands  eager,  exultant,  a  twelve-year-old  bo}-. 
His  face  all  aflame  with  a  ra]>turous  joy. 

'■  T/taf's  music  for  heroes  iu  battle  ai'i-ay  I 
Oh,  mother  I    I  feel  like  a  Roman  to-day  I 
The  Romans  1  read  of  in  Plutarch  : — Yes,  men 
Thouo-lit  it  noble  to  die  for  their  lil>erties  then  I 


A    RHYME    OF   THE   AVAR.  ^"^ 

And  I've  wondered  if  soldiers  were  ever  so  bold, 
So  gallant  and  brave,  as  those  heroes  of  old. 
.„T|^^^,^  ,  _  lij^ten  !  --  that    volley   peals    out    the 

reply  ; 
They  prove  it  is  sweet  for  their  country  to  die  : 
How  grand  it  must  be  !  what  a  pride  !   what  a  joy  t 
—And  lean  do  nothing  :    I'm  only  a  boy  !" 

The  fervid  hand  drops  as  he  ceases  to  speak, 
And  tne  elo<iuent  crimson  fades  out  on  his  cheek. 

^'  Oh,  Beverly  '.—brother  !     It  never  would  do  ! 
Who  comforts  mamma,  and  who  helps  her  like  you? 
She  sends  to  the  battle  her  darlingest  one,— 
She  could  not  give  both  of  them,— husband  and  son  ; 
If  she  lose  you,  what's  left  her  in  life  to  enjoy? 
—Oh,  no  !  I  am  glad  you  are  only  a  boy." 
And  Sophy  looks  up  Avith  her  tenderest  air. 
And  kisses  the  fingers  that  toy  with,  her  hair. 

For  her,  Avho  all  silent  and  motionless  stands. 
And  over  her  heart  locks  her  quivering  hands. 
With  white  lips  apart,  and  with  eyes  that  dilate, 
As  if  the  low  thunder  were  sounding  her  fate,— 
What  racking  suspenses,  Avhat  agonies  stir. 
What  spectres  tliese  echoes  are  rousing  for  her  ! 


20  A    RHYME    OF    THE    WAR. 

Brave-naturd,   yet  quaking. — liigli-souled,   yet  so 

pale-- 
Ts  it  thus  that  tlie  wife  of  a  soldier  should  quail, 
And  shudder  and  shrink  at  the  boom  of  a  guu. 
As  only  a  faint-hearted  girl  should  have  done? 
Ah  !   wait  until  custom  lias  l)lunted  the  keen. 
Cutting  edge  of  that  sound,  and  no  woman.  I  ween, 
"Will  hear  it  with  pulses  more  e(|ual,  mure  free 
From  feminine  terrors  and  weakness_,  than  she. 

The  sun  sinks  serenely  :   a  ]ini;'erin<2'  look 
He  flings  at  the  mists  that  steal  over  the  hrook, 
Like  nuns  that  come  forth  in  the  twilight  to  pray, 
Till  their  bluslies  are  seen  through  tlieir  mantles  of 
grey. 

The  gay-hearted  children,  hut  lightly  oppressed. 
Find  perfect  relief  on  their  pillow  of  rest : 
For  Alice,  no  bless' d  forgetfulness  comes  f — 
Tlie  wail  of  tlie  bugles, — the  roll  of  tlie  drums, — 
The  musket's  shar[>  crack, — tlie  artillery's  roar, — 
The  flashing  of  bayonets  dripping  with  gore, — 
The  moans  of  the  dying, — the  horror,  the  dread. 
The  ghastliness  gathering  over  the  dead. — 
Oh  !  these  are  the  visions  of  anguish  and  pain, — 
The  phantoms   of  terror   that    troop   through   her 
brain  ! 


A    lUlYMK    OF    THE    ^VAll.  21 


She  pauses  again  and  again  on  the  iioor, 

Whicli  tlie  nioonliglit  has  hrightened  so  mockingly 

o'er  : 
She  wrings  her  eokl  hands  with  a  groan  of  despair  ; 
i'Oh,  God  I    have   compassion  !— my   darling    is 

tliere  1" 

All  placidly,  dewily,  freshly,  the  dawn 
Comes  stealing  in  pulseless  tranc[uility  on  : 
More  freely  she  breathes,  in  its  balminess,,  though 
The  forehead  it  kisses  is  pallid  with  woe. 

Through  the  long  summer  sunshine  the  Cottage  is 

stirred 
By  passers,  who  brokenly  fling  them  a  word : 
Such  tidings  of  slaughter  !   ^'  The  enemy  cowers  ;"— 
''He  breaks!"— ^'^  He  is  flying  !"—'' Manassas  is 


ours 


!' 


'Tis  evening  :    and  Archie,  alone  on  the  grass, 
Sits  watching  the  fire-flios  gleam  as  they  pass, 
When  sudden  he  rushes,  too  eager  to  wait, — 
^' Mamma!     there's    an    ambulance    stops  .  at    the 
irate  !' 


22 


nriVMK  nr  tiik  wat:, 


.Suspense  tli"n  is  past  :    lie  is  Ix.nic  iVoin  the  lidd,- 
*'(i«»<l  li«'i|»iiicl    .  .  .    (ind   L^rant    it  lie   wo/  on    liis 

siiici.i  :• 

Aiul  ^Vlice,  licr  jiassionatc  suul  in  lier  eves. 

And  liope  and  i'oar  Avinuinij,-  eacli  quickeu'd  step. 

riies,— 
Embraees,  with  irautical  wildness,  the  Innii 

Of  her  liusband.   and  finds    ...    it  is  livinLr.   and 

o  ■ 

warm  ! 


A    RIIYME    OF    THE    WAR.  23 


III. 


'Ye,  who  by  the  couches  of  hiugui.shiug  ones. 
Have  watched   through   the   rising  and   setting  of 

suns, — 
Who,  silent,  behind  the  ch)se  curtain,  withdrawn, 
Scarce  know  that  the  current  of  being  sweeps  on, — 
To  whom  outer  life  is  unreal,  untrue, 
A  world  with  whose  moils  ye  have  nothing  to  do  ; 
Who  feel  that  the  day,  with  its  inultiform  rounds, 
Is  full  of  discordant,  impertinent  sounds, — 
Who  speak  in  low  whispei's,  and  stealthily  tread, 
As  if  a  faint  footfall  were  something  to  dread, — 
Who  find  all  existence, — its  gladness,  its  gloom, — 
Enclosed  by  the  Avails  of  that  limited  room.— 
Ye  only  can  measure  the  sleepless  unrest 
'I'hat  lies  like  a  ni<>-ht-mare  on  Alice's  breast.. 


24  A     RIIVMK    OF    TlIK    WAH. 

Days  come  aiul  days  ^^j^o,  and  .slic  watches  the  strife 
So  evenly  haUmced,    twixt  death  and   twixt  life  ; 
Thanks  ( Jod  lie  still  hrcatlies,  as  each  evenini;  takes 
Aving, 

And  dares  not  to  think  w!iat  the  morrow  may  l»rin;T. 


In  the  lone,  ghostly  midnight,  he  raves  as  he  lies, 
With  death's  ashen  pallidness  dimming  his  eyes  : 
He    shouts    the    sharp    war-cry,  —  he    rallies    his 

men, — 
He  is  on  the  red  field  of  Manassas  acrain. 


''  Now.  courage,  my  comrades  !     Keep  steady  !  lie 

low  ! 
Wait,  like  the  couch" d  lion,  to  spring  on  your  foe  : 
Ye  '11  face  without   flinching   the   cannons'    grim 

mouth, 
For  ye're  '  Knights  of  the  Horse-Shoe' — ye're  Sons 

of  the  South  ! 
There's  Jackson! — how  brave  he  rides!  coursing 

at  will. 
Midst  the  prostrated  lines  on  the  crest  of  the  hill ; 
God  keep  him  !  for  what  will  we  do  if  he  falls  ? 
Be  readv,  Q;ood  fellows  ! — be  cool  wdien  lie  calls 


A   RHYME   OF   THE   WAR.  25 

To  the  charge  :   Oh  !  we'll  beat  them, — we'll  turn 

them, — and  then 
We'll  ride  them  down  madly  !— On  !   Onward  !  my 

men  ! "  • 

The  feverish  frenzy  o'erwearies  him  soon, 
And  back  on  his  pillows  he  sinks  in  a  swoon. 

And  sometimes,  when  Alice  is  wetting  his  lip, 
He  turns  from  the  draught,  and  refuses  to  sip  : 
— "  'Tis  sweet,  pretty  angel ! — but  yonder  there  lies 
A  famishing  comrade,  with  death  in  his  eyes  : 
His  need  is  far  greater,  .   .   .  Sir  Philip,  I  think, — 
Or  was  it  Sir  Philip  ?     .     .     .     go,    go  ! — let  him 
drink!" 

And  oft,  with  a  sort  of  bewildered  amaze. 

On  her  flxce  he  would  fasten  the  wistfullest  gaze  : 

— ''  You  are  kind,  but  a  hospital  nurse  cannot  be 

Like  Alice, — my  tenderest  Alice, — to  me. 

Oh  !  I  know  there's  at  Beechenbrook,  many  a  tear. 

As  she  asks  all  the  day, — 'Will  he  never  be  here?'  " 

But  Nature,  kind  healer  !  brings  sovereignest  balm, 
And  strokes  the  wild  pulses  with  coolness  and  calm ; 
3 


26  A    RIIYMK    OF    THE    WAR. 

The  conflict  sn  c(|U;il,  so  stul»l)<>ni.  is  past. 
And  life  gains  tlie  liardly-won  battle  at  last. 
How  sweet  through  the  lung  convalescence  to  lie. 
And  from 'the  low  window,  gaze  nut  at  the  sky. 
And  float,  as  the  ze})hyrs  so  tranquilly  d«>. 
Aloft  in  the  depths  of  inettahle  hlue  :  — 
In  painless,  delicious  half  consciousness  hrood, — 
Xo  duties  to  cunil)er.  no  claims  t<i  intrude. — 
Receptive  as  childhooil,  from  trouble  a^  tVee. 
And  feel  it  is  hliss  enough  simply,  tn  ])i'  \ 

For  Alice. — wliat  })encil  can  })icture  her  joy. — 

So  perfect,  so  thankful,  so  free  from  annny. 

As    her    lips    ])ress    the    Intus-hound   clialice.    and 

drain 
That  exquisite  blessedness  born  out  of  pain  I 
Oh  !   not  in  her  maidenhood,  blushing  and  sweet. 
AVhen   Douglass   tirst   poured   out   his  love  at   her 

leet ; 
And  not  when  a  shrinking  and  beautiful  britle. 
AVith  worshi})ping  fondness  she  clung  to  his  side  ; 
And  not  in  those  holiest  moments  of  life. 
When  first  she  was  held  to  his  heart,  a>  his  wife  ; 
And  never  in  motherhood's  earliest  l)liss. 
Had  she  tasted  ;i  happiness  rounded  like  this  ! 


A    RHYME    OF    THE    WAR.  27 

And     Douglass,    sale    slieltered    from    war's    rude 

alarms, 
Finds  Eden's  lost  precincts  again  in  her  arms  : 
He  hears  afar  oif,  in  the  distance,  the  roar 
And  the  Lash  ^of  the  billoAvs  that  break  on  the  shore 
Of  his  isk^  of  enchantment, — his  haven  of  rest, — 
And  ra])turous  languor  steals  over  his  breast. 

He  bathes  in  the  sunlight  of  Alice's  smiles  ; 

He  Avraps  himself  round  with  love's  magical  wiles  : 

His  sweet  iterations  pall  not  on  her  ear, — 

^'  Hove  you — Hove  you  .'" — she  never  can  hear 

That  cadence  too  often  ;  its  musical  roll 

Wakes  ever  an  echoed  reply  in  her  soul. 

— 13o  A'isions  of  trial,  of  warning,  of  woe. 
Loom  dark  in  the  future  of  doubt  ?     Do  they  know 
They  are  hiving,  of  honied  remembrance,  a  store 
To  live  on,  when  summer  and  sunshine  are  o'er? 
Do  they  feel  that  their  island  of  beauty  at  last 
Must  be  rent   by  the  tempest, — be   swept  by  the 

blast? 
Do  they  dream  that  afar,  on  the  wild,  wintry  main, 
Their  love-freighted  bark  must  be  driven  ao;ain? 


28  A    RHYME   OF   THE    WAR. 

— Bless  God  for  the  wisdom  that  curtains  so  tight 
To-morrow's  enjoyments  or  griefs  from  our  sight  ! 
Bless  God  for  the  ignorance,  darkness  and  douht. 
That  girdle  so  kindly  our  future  about ! 


The  crutches  are  brought,  and  the  invalid's  strength 
Is  able  to  measure  the  lawn's  gravel'd  length  ; 
And  under  the  beeches,  once  more  he  reclines, 
And  hears  the  w^ind  plaintively  moan  through  the 

pines  ; 
His  children  around  him,  with  frolic  and  play. 
Cheat  autumn's  mild  listlessness  out  of  the  day  : 
And  Alice,  the  sunshine  all  flecking  her  book. 
Beads  low  to  the  chime  of  the  murmuring  brook. 


But  the  world's  rushing  tide  washes  up  to  his  feet. 
And  leaps  the  soft  barriejrs  that  bound  his  retreat  ; 
The  tumult  of  camps  surges  out  on  the  breeze. 
And  ever  seems  mocking  his  Capuan  ease. 
He  dare  not  be  happy,  or  tranquil,  or  blest. 
While  his  soil  by  the  feet  of  invaders  is  prest : 
"What   brooks   it    though    still    he   be    pale   as    a 

ghost  ? 
— If  he  languish  or  fail,  let  him  fliil  at  his  post. 


A   RHYME   OF   THE   WAR.  29 

The  gums  by  the  brook-side  are  crimson  and  brown ; 
The  leaves  of  the  ash  flicker  goldenly  down  ; 
The  roses  that  trellis  the  porches,  have  lost 
Their  brio:htness  and  bloom  at  the  touch  of  the 


frost 


The  ozier-twined  seat  by  the  beeches,  no  more 
Looks   tempting,   and   cheerful,   and   sweet,  as  of 

yore; 
The  water  glides  darkly  and  mournfully  on, 
As  Alice  sits  watching  it : — Douglass  has  gone  ! 


A    RIIYVE    OF    THE    WAR, 


IV. 

''  I  am  weary  and  wuni, — I  am  hungry  and  chill. 
And  cuttingly  strikes  the  keen  blast  o'er  the  hill  ; 
All  day  I  have  ridden  through   snnw  and  through 

sleet, 
With  nothing, — not  even  a  cracker  to  eat  : 
But  n.w,  as  I  rest  by  the  bivouac  fire, 
AVhose  blaze  leaps  up  merrily,  higher  and  higher, 
Impatient  as  Roland,  who  neighs  to  be  fed, — 
For  Caleb  to  bring  me  my  bacon  and  bread. — 
111  warm  my  cold  heart,  that  is  aching  and  lone, 
By  thinking  of  you,  love, — my  Alice, — my  own  ! 

"  I  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  scream  of  the  wind, 
I  leave  the  rude  camp  and  the  forest  behind  : 
And  Beechenbrook,  wrapped  in  its  raiment  of  white, 
Is  tauntingly  filling  my  vision  to-night. 


A    RHYME    or    THE    AVAR.  31 

I  catch  mv  sweet  little  ones'  innocent  mirth. 


I  watch  your  dear  face,  as  you  sit  at  the  hearth  ; 

And  I  know,  by  the  tender  expression  I  see, 

I  know, that  my  darling  is  musing  of  me. 

Does  her  thought  dim  the  blaze  ? — Does  it  shed 

through  the  room 
A  chilly,  unseen,  and  yet  palpable  gloOm? 
Ah  !  then  we  are  equal !      You  share  all  my  pain, 
And  I  halve  your  blessedness  with  you  again  I 

^^  Don't  think  that  my  hardships  are  bitter  to  bear  ; 

Don't  think  I  repine  at  tlie  soldier's  rough  fare  ; 

If  ever  a  thought  so  unworthy  steals  on, 

I  look  upon  Ashby, — and  lo  !  it  is  gone  ! 

Such  chivalry,  fortitude,  spirit  and  tone. 

Make  brighter,  and  stronger,  and  prouder,  my  own. 

Oh  !  Beverly,  boy  ! — on  his  white  steed,  I  ween, 

A  princelier  presence  has  never  been  seen  ; 

And  as  yonder  he  lies,  from  the  groups  all  apart, 

I  bow  to  him  loyally, — bow  with  my  heart. 

''  What  brave,  buoyant  letters  you  Avrite,  sweet ! — 

they  ring 
Through  my  soul  like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet,  and 

bring 


32  A   RHYME   OF   THE   WAR. 

Such  a  flame  to  my  eye,  such  a  flush  to  my  cheek, — 

That  often  my  liand  will  unconsciously  seek 

The  hilt  of  my  sword  as  I  read, — and  I  feel 

As  the  warrior  does,  wdien  he  flashes  the  steel     f 

In  fiery  circles,  and  shouts  in  his  might. 

For  the  heroes  hehind  him,  to  follow  its  light ! 

True  wife  of' a  soldier  ! — If  douht  or  dismay 

Had  ever,  within  me,  one  instant  held  sway, 

Your  words  wield  a  spell  that  would  hid  them  he 

gone. 
Like  hodiless  ghosts  at  the  touch  of  the  dawn. 

^'  Gould  the  veriest  craven  that  cowers  and  quails 
Before  the  vast  horde  that  insults  and  assails 
Our  land  and  our  liberties, — could  he  to-night. 
Sit  here  on  the  ice-girdled  log  where  I  write. 
And  look  on  the  hopeful,  bright  brows  of  the  men, 
'V^Jho  have  toiled  all  the  day  over  mountain,  through 

glen,— 
Half-clothed  and  unfed, — would  he  doubt  ? — would 

he  dare. 
In  the  face  of  such  proof,  yield  again  to  despair  ? 

'^  The  hum  of  their  voices  comes  laden  with  cheer, 
As  the  wind  wafts  a  musical  swell  to  mv  ear, — 


A    RHYME   OF   THE   WAR.  33 

Wild,  clarion  catches, — now  flute-like  and  low  ; 
— Would  YOU  like  me  to  give  you  their  Song  of  the 
Snow? 

Halt ! — the  march  is  over  ! 

Day  is  almost  done  ; 
Loose  the  cumhrous  knapsack, 

Drop  the  heavy  gun  : 
Chilled  and  wet  and  weary, 

Wander  to  and  fro, 
Seeking  wood  to  kindle 

Fires  amidst  the  snow. 

Round  the  bright  blaze  gather, 

Heed  not  sleet  nor  cold, — 
Ye  are  Spartan  soldiers. 

Stout  and  brave  and  bold  : 
Never  Xerxian  army 

Yet  subdued  a  foe, 
Who  but  asked  a  blanket 

On  a  bed  of  snow. 

Shivering  midst  the  darkness 
Christian  men  are  found. 

There  devoutly  kneeling 
On  the  frozen  ground. — 


34  A    KHV.MK    nV    TIIK    WAR. 

Pleadiiii:;  t'oi-  their  i-ounti-v, 

111  its  hour  <>t"  \V(»(.'. — 
F<»r  its  s(il(li(_'i-s  iiiarcliing 

SlldC'lt'SS    tllldU^ll    tilt'    SllMW. 

Lnst  in  lieavv  slumlieis. 

Free  iVuiii  toil  and  stiilc*  : 
Dix'aiiiiiig  of  their  deai-  ones, — 

Home,  and  child,  and  wite  : 
Tentle.ss  they  are  lying. 

While  the  fires  hurn  low. — 
Lying  in  their  blankets. 

Midst  December  s  snow  ! 

Come,  8o})hy.  my  l)lossoni !   I've  something  to  say 
Will  chase  lor  a  moment  your  gambols  away  : 
To-day  as  we  climbed  the  steep  mountain-path  o'er, 
I  nctticed  a  bare-footed  lad  in  my  corps  ; 
''  How  eomes  it." — I  asked, — *'  you  look  careful  and 

bold.— 
How  eomes  it   you"i-e  marching,   unslntd,   through 

the  C(dd  y 

''Ah,  sir  !   Tm  a  poor,  lonely  oritlian.  you  see  ; 
No  m«»ther.  no  friends  that  are  caring  for  me  : 


A    IIHYME    OF    THE   WAR.  35 

If  I'm  wouiuled,  or  captured,  or  killed,  in  the  war, 
"Twill  matter  to  nobody,  Colonel  Dunbar." 

Now,  8opliy! — your  needles,  dear! — Knit  him  some 

socks. 
And  send  the  poor  fellow  a  pair  in  my  box  ; 
Then  he'll  know, — and  his  heart  with  the  thought 

Avill  be  filled, — 
There  is  one  little  maiden  Avill  care  if  he's  killed. 

The  fire  burns  dimly,  and  scattered  around. 
The  men  lie  asleep  on  the  snow-cuvered  ground  ; 
But  ere  in  my  blanket  I  wrap  me  to  rest, 
I  hold  you,  my  darling,  close, — close,  to  my  breast : 
Grod  love  you !   God  grant  you  His  comforting  light ! 
I  kiss  YOU  a  thousand  times  over  ! — Good  ni^dit !"' 


36  A    RHYME   OF    THE   '.VAR. 


V. 


'^^  To-morrow    is    Christmas!" — and   clapping    his 

handsj 
Little  Archie  in  joyful  expectancy  stands, 
And  watches  the  shadows,  now  short  and  now  tall, 
That  momently  dance  up  and  down  on  the  wall. 

Drawn  curtains  of  crimson  shut  out  the  cold  night, 

And  the  parlor  is  pleasant  w^th  odours  and  light ; 

The  soft  lamp  suspended,  its  mellowness  throws 

O'er  cluster'd  geranium,  jasmine  and  rose  ; 

The  sleeping  canary  hangs  caged  midst  the  hlooms, 

A  Sybarite  slumberer  steeped  in  perfumes  ; 

For  Alice  still  clings  to  her  birds  and  her  flowers, 

Sweet  tokens  of  kindlier,  happier  hours. 

'-  To-morrow  is  Christmas  ! — but  Beverly, — say, 
Will  it  do  to  be  glad  when  Papa  is  away?" 


A    RHYME    OF    THE    WAR.  37 

And  the  face  that  i.s  tricksy  and  blythe  as  can  he, 
Tries  vainly  to  temper  its  shadowless  glee. 

^'For  you,  i)Qi,  I'm  snre  it  is  right  to  be  glad  ; 
'Tis  a  jDitiful  thing  to  see  little  ones  sad  ; 
But  for  Sophy  and  me,  wdio  are  older,  you  know, — 
We  dare  not  he  glad  when  we  look  at  the  snow  ! 
I  shrink  from  this  comfort,  this  liglit  and  tliis  heat, 
This  plenty  to  wear,  and  this  plenty  to  eat. 
When  the  soldiei's  wlio  figlit  for  us, — die  for  us, — ■ 

lie, 
With  nothing  around  and  above,  but  the  sky  ; 
When  their   clothes  are  so  light,   and  the  rations 

they  deal. 
Are  only  a  morsel  of  bacon  and  meal  : 
And  how  can  I  fold  my  thick  blankets  around. 
When    I   know   that   my   father  "s    asleep   on   the 

ground  ? 
I'm  ashamed  to  be  happy,  or  merry,  or  free. 
As  if  war  and  its  trials  were  nothing  to  me  : 
Oh  !   I  never  can  know  any  frolic  or  fun, — 
Any    real,    mad     romps,  —  till    the    battles     are 

done  ! ' " 
And  the  face  of  the  bo}^,  so  heroic  and  fair. 
Is  touched  with  the  singular  shadow  of  care. 
4 


38  A    KllYME    OF    TIIK    ^VAK. 

Sophy  ceases  lier  warbling,  subdues  her  soft  luirtli, 
And  draws  her  low  ottoman  up  to  the  hearth  : 

''But,  brother,  what  good  would  it  do  to  refuse 
The  comforts  and  blessings  God  gives  us,  or  use 
Them  quite  witli  indifference,  as  much  as  to  say. 
We  care  not  how  soon  they  are  taken  away  ! 
I  am  sure  I  would  give  my  last  blanket^  and  spread 
My  pretty,  blue  cloak,  at  night,  over  my  bed, — 
(Mamma,  you  know,  covers  herself  Avith  her  shawl. 
Since  we've  sent  all  our  blankets,) — but.  then,  it's 

too  small  ! 
Would  Papa  be  less  hungry  or  cold,  do  you  think, 
If  ice  had  too  little  to  eat  or  to  drink  ? 
So  I  mean  to  be  busy, — I  mean  to  be  glad  ; 
Mamma  says  there's  time  enough  yet  to  be  sad ; 
I'll  work  for  the  soldiers, — I'll  pray,  and  I'll  plan, 
And  just  be  as  happy  as  ever  I  can  ; 
I've  made  the   grey   shirt,   and  I've   finished  the 

socks : — 
So  come,  let  us  help, — they  are  packing  the  box/' 

How  grateful  the  task  is  to  Alice  I  her  cares 
Are  quite  put  aside,  and  her  countenance  wears 


'    A    RHYME    OF    THE    WAK.  39 

A  look  of  enjoyment  as  eager,  as  bright, 
As  Santa  Clans  brings  little  dreamers  to-night ; 
For  Douglass  away  in  his  camp^  is  to  share 
Tlio  daintiest  eates  that  her  larder  can  spare. 


The  turkey,  Avell  seasoned,  and  tenderly  browned, 
Is  flanked  by  the  spiciest  a  la  mode  "  round  ;" 
The  great  ^'  priestly  ham,"  in  its  juiciest  pride, 
Is  there, — with  the  tenderest  surloin  beside  ; 
E"eat  bottles,  suggestive  of  ketchups  and  wines, 
And  condiments  racy,  of  various  kinds  ; 
And  firm  rolls  of  butter  as  yellow  as  gold, 
And  patties  and  biscuit  most  rare  to  behold, 
And  sauces  that  richest  of  odors  betray, — 
Are  marshalled  in  most  appetizing  array. 
Then  Beverly  brings  of  \uf,  nuts  a  full  store, 
And  Archie  has  apples,  a  dozen  or. more  ; 
While  Sophy,  with  gratified  housewifery,  makes 
Her  present  of  spicy  ^'  Confederate  cakes."' 


And  then  in  a  snug  little  corner,  there  lies 

A  pacquet  will  brighten  the  orphan  boy's  eyes  ; 

For  Beverly  claims  it  a  pleasure  to  use 

His  last  cherish'd  hoardinsjs  in  buvino-  him  shoes. 


40  A    RHYME    OF    THE    WAR.   * 

Sophy's  socks  too  are  there  ;  aiid  she  catches  afar — 
''  There's  somebody  cares  for  me,  Colonel  Dunbar  I" 

What  subtlest  of  essences,  sovereign  to  cheer — 
What  countless  J  iincatalogu'd  tokens  are  here  ! 
What  lavender'd  memories,  tenderly  green, 
Lie  hidden,  these  grosser  of  viands  between  ! 
What  food  for  the  heart-life, — unreckon'd,  untold— 
What  manna  enclosed  in  its  chalice  of  gold ! 
What  caskets  of  sweets  that  Love  only  unlocks, — 
What  mysteries  Douglass  will  find  in  the  box  I 


A    KIIYME    OF    THE    AVAR.  41 


VI. 


The  lull  of  the  Winter  is  over  ;  and  Spring 
Comes  back  J  as  delicious  and  buoyant  a  thing, 
As  airy,  and  fairy,  and  lightsome,  and  bland, 
As  if  not  a  sorrow  was  dark'ning  the  land  ; — 
So  little  has  Nature  of  passion  or  part 
In  the  woes  and  the  throes  of  humanity's  heart. 

The  wild  tide  of  battle  runs  red, — dashes  high. 
And  blots  out  the  sj)lendour  of  earth  and  of  sky ; 
The  blue  air  is  heavy,  and  sulph'rous,  and  dun, 
And  the  breeze  on  its  wings  bears  the  boom  of  the 

gun. 
In  faster  and  fiercer  and  deadlier  shocks, 
The  thunderous  billows  are  hurled  on  the  rocks  ; 
And    our   Valley   becomes,   amid  Spring's   softest 

breath, 
The  valley,  alas  !   of  the  shadow  of  death. 
4* 


42  A    RFIVMK    <»F    THK    WAll. 

The  crash  of  the  onset, — the  plunge  and  the  roll, 

Eeach  down  to  the  depth  of  each  patriot's  soul  ; 

It  quivers — for  since  it  is  human,  it  must  ; 

But  never  a  tremor  of  doubt  or  distrust,  • 

Once   hlanches    tlie   cheek,   <>r  is   Avrunjx  from   the 

mouth. 
Or  lurks  in  the  eve  of  the  sons  of  the  South. 


What  need  for  dismay  ?     Let  the  live  surges  roar, 
And  leap  in  their  fury,  our  fastnesses  o'er_, 
And  threaten  our  beautiful  Valley  to  fill 
With  rapine  and  ruin  more  terrible  still : 
i  What  fear  we? — See    Jackson!  his  sword    in   his 

hand, 
Like    the    stern    rocks    around    him,    immovable 

stand, — 
The  wisdom,  the  skill  and  the  strength    that   he 

boasts, 
Sought  ever  from  him  who  is  Leader  of  Hosts  : 
— He  speaks  in   the  name  of  his  God: — lo  !    the 

tide, — 
The  red  sea  of  battle,  is  seen  to  divide  ; 
The  pathway  of  victory  cleaves  the  dark  flood  ; — 
And  the  foe  is  o'erwhelmed  in  a  deluge  of  blood  1 


A   RHYME   OF    THE    WAR.  43 

The  spirit  of  Alice  no  longer  is  bowed 

By   the    troubles,  and   tumults,  and  terrors,  that 

crowd 
So  closely  around  her  : — the  willow's  lithe  form 
Bends  meekly  to  meet  the  wild  rush  of  the  storm. 


Yet  pale  as  Cassandra,  unconscious  of  joy. 
With  visions  of  Greeks  at  the  gates  of  her  Troy, 
All  day  she  has  waited  and  watched  on  the  lawn. 
Till  the  purple  and  gold  of  the  sunset  are  gone  ; 
For  the  battle  draws  near  her  : — few  leagues  inter- 
vene 
Her  home  and  that  Valley  of  slaughter,  between. 

The  tidings  and  rumors  come  thick  and  come  fast, 
As  riders  fly  hotly  and  breathlessly  past ; 
They  tell  of  the  onslaught, — the  headlong  attack 
Of  the  foe  with  a  quadruple  force  at  his  back : 
They  boast  how  they  hurl  themselves, — shiver  and 

fall 
Before  their  stout  rampart,  the  valiant  ''Stonewall." 

At  length,  with  the  gradual  fading  of  day, — 
The  tokens  of  battle  are  floated  away  : 


44  A    RIIVMK    OF    THE    WAK, 


The  booming  no  longer  makes  sullen  the  air, 
And  the  silence  of  night  seems  as  holy  as  prayer. 


Gray  shadows  still  linger  the  beeches  among, 
And  scarce  has  the  earliest  matin  been  sung, 
Ere  Alice  with  Beverly  pale  at  her  side, 
Yet  firm  as  liis  mother,  is  ready  to  ride. 

With  sympathy,  womanly,  tender,  divine, — 
With  lint  and  with  bandage,  with  bread  and  with 

wine, — 
She  hastes  to  the  battle-held,  eager  to  bear 
Relief  to  the  wounded  and  perishing  there  : 
To  breathe,  like  an  angel  of  mercy,  the  breath 
Of  peace  over  brows  that  are  fainting  in  death. 

She  dares  not  to  stir  with  a  question,  her  w^oe, 
One   word. — and  the  bitter-brimm'd  heart  would 

o'crflow  : 
But  speechless,  and  moveless,  and  stony  of  eye. 
Scarce  conscious  of  aught  in  the  earth  or  the  sky, 
In    a    swoon    of    the    licart,    all    her    senses   have 

reeled, — 
But  she  prays  for  endurance, — for  here  is  the  field. 


A    KHYME    OF    THE    AVAR.  45 

The  flight  and  puvsiiit,  so  harassing,  so  hot, 
Have  drifted  all  combatants  far  from  the  spot  : 
And  through  tlio   sparse  woodlands,  and  over  the 

plain, 
Lie  gorily  scattered,  the  Avounded  and  slain. 
Oh  !  the  sickness, -^the  shudder, — the  quailing  of 

fear. 
As  it  leaps   to  lier  lips, — "What  if  Douglass  be 

liere  I"' 

Yet  she  frames  not  a  question  ;  her  spirit  can  bear 
Oh  !  anything, — all  things,  but  hoj)el6ss  despair  : 
Does  her  darling  lie  stretched  on  the  slope  of  yon 

hill? 
Let  her  doubt — let  her  hug  the  suspense,  if  she  will ! 

She  watches  each  ambulance-burden  with  dread  ; 
She  looks  in  the  faces  of  dying  and  dead  : 
And  hour  after  hour,  with  steady  control. 
She  bends  to  her  task  all  the  strength  of  her  soul  ; 
She  comforts  the  wounded  with  pity's  sweet  care, 
And  the  spirit  that's  passing,  she  speeds  with  her 
prayer. 

She  starts  as  she  hears,  from  her  stout-hearted  boy, 
A  wild  exclamation,  half  doubt  and  half  joy  :  — 


46  A  ujivMn  OF  THE  waii. 

^'  Oil  I    Surgeon  ! — .soiuu  luandy  !   Ik-'s  iUiiitiiig  I — 

All  !  now 
The  colour  comes  back  to  his  cheek  and  his  bruw;  — 
He  breathes  again — speaks  again — listen  ! — you  arc 
^  An  orderly' — is  it? — ^  of  Colonel  Dunbar?' 
'  He  fought  like  a  lion  !'   (I  knew  it !)  and  passed 
Untouched  through  the  battle,  ^unhurt  to  the  last?' 
— My   fatlier    is    safe, —  mother! — safe! — what  a 

And  here  is  Macjilicrson. — our  barefooted  bov  !' 


Poor  Alice  ! — her  grief  lias  been  tearless  and  dumb, 
But  the  pressure  once  lifted,  her  senses  succumb  : 
Too  quick  the  revulsion, — too  glad  the  surprise, — 
The  mists  of  unconsciousness  curtain  her  eyes  : 
"Tis  only  a  moment  they  suffer  eclipse. 
And  words  of  thanksgiving  soon  tlirill  on  her  lips. 


To  Beechenbrook's  quiet,  witli  tenderest  care, 
They  hasten  the  wounded,  wan  soldier  to  bear  ; 
And  never  hung  mother  more  patiently  o'er 
The  couch  of  the  child,  her  own  bosom  that  bore, 
Than  Alice  above  the  lone  orphan,  who  lay 
Submissively  breatliing  his  spirit  away. 


A    KHYME    OF    THE    WAR.  47 

He  kno^vs  that  existence  is  ebbing  ;  his  brain 
Is  lucid  and  calm^  in  the  pauses  of  pain  ; 
But  his  round  boyisli  cheek  with  no  weeping  is  wet, 
And  liis  smile  is  not  touched  with  a  shade  of  regret. 

No  murmur  is  lettered — no  lingering  sigh 
Escapes  him  ; — so  young, — yet  so  willing  to  die  ! 
His  garment  of  flesh  he  has  worn  undefiled, 
His  faith  is  the  beautiful  faith  of  a  child  : 
He  know^s  that  the  Crucified  hung  on  the  tree, 
That  the  pathway  to  bliss  might  be  open  and  free  : 
He  believes  that  the  cup  has  been  drained, — he  can 

find 
Not  a  drop  of  the  w^ath  that  had  filled  it, — behind. 
If  ever  a  doubt  or  misgiving  assails, 
His  finger  he  puts  on  the  print  of  the  nails  ; 
If  sometimes  there  springs  an  emotion  of  fear. 
He  lays  his  cold  hand  on  the  mark  of  the  spear  ! 
He  thinks  of  his  darling,  dead  mother  ; — the  light 
Of  the  Heavenly  City  falls  full  on  his  sight : 
And  under  the  rows  of  the  palms,  by  the  brim 
Of  the  river — he  knows  slie  is  waiting  for  him. 

But  the  present  comes  back  : — and  on  Alice's  ear, 
Fall  whispers  like  these,  as  she  pauses  to  hear  : 


48  A    RIIYMK    OF    TIIK    WAR. 

'•  Only  a  ])rivate  : — and  who  will  care 

When  I  may  })ass  away. — 
Or  how,  or  why  I  ]>erisli,  or  where 

I  mix  Avitli  the  common  clay  ? 
They  will  fill  my  emj^ty  place  again. 

AVith  another  as  hold  and  hrave  ; 
And  theyll  blot  ]ne  out,  ere  the  Autumn  rain 

Has  freshened  mv  nameless  <rrave. 

Only  a  private  : — it  matters  not, 

That  I  did  my  duty  well  : 
That  all  through  a  score  of  battles  I  fouglit, 

And  then,  like  a  soldier,  fell  : 
The  country  I  died  for. — never  will  heed 

My  unrequited  claim  ; 
And  history  cannot  record  the  deed. 

For  she  never  has  heard  my  name. 

Only  a  private  ; — and  yet  I  know. 

"When  I  heard  the  rallying  call, 
I  Avas  one  of  the  very  first  to  go, 

And  .  .  .  I"m  one  of  the  many  who  fall  : 
But,  as  here  I  lie,  it  is  sweet  to  feel. 

That  my  honor's  without  a  stain  : — 
That  I  only  fought  for  my  Country's  weal, 

And  not  for  glory  or  gain. 


A    RHYME    OF    IllK    WAR.  49 

Only  a  private  ; — yet  He  avIio  reads 

Throuoli  the  guises  of  the  heai-t. 
Looks  not  at  the  splendour  of  the  deeds. 

But  the  way  we  do  our  ])art  : 
And  when  He  shall  take  us  l)y  tlie  hand. 

And  our  small  serviee  own. 
There'll  a  glorious  band  of  privates  stand 

As  victors  around  the  tlirone  !"' 


The  breath  of  the  morning  is  heavy  and  eliill. 
And  gloomily  lower  the  mists  on  the  hill  : 
The  winds  through  the  beeches  are  shivering  low. 
With  a  plaintive  and  sad  miserere  of  woe  : 
A  quiet  is  over  the  Cottage, — a  dread 
Clouds  the  cliildren's  sweet  faces, — Macpherson  is 
dead  ! 


50  A    KHYMK    OF    THE    WAR, 


VII 


'Tis  Autumn, — an  I  Nature  the  forest  luis  liung 
"With  arras  more  gorgeous  than  ever  was  flung 
From  GoLelin  looms, — all  so  varied,  so  rare, 
As  never  the  priueeliest  palaees  were. 
Soft  curtains  of  haze  tlie  lar  mountains  enfold. 
Whose    warp    is    of    purple,    wliose    woof    is    of 

gold, 
And  the  sky  bends  as  peacefully,  purely  above. 
As  if  earth  breatlied  an  atmosphere  only  of  love. 


But  thick  as  white  asters  in  Autumn,  are  found 
The  tents  all  bestrewing  the  carpeted  ground  ; 
The  din  of  a  camp,  with  its  stir  and  its  strife, 
Its  motley  and  strange,  multitudinous  life. 
Floats   upward    along    the   brown    slopes,    till    it 

fills 
The  echoiuir  hollows  atar  in  tlie  hills. 


A    RHYME    OF    THE    WAR.  51 

'Tis  the  twilight  of  Sabbath.— and   sweet  throu2:h 

the  air. 
Swells    the    blast  uf  the    ]>ugle,    tliat   summons  to 

prayer : 
The  signal  is  answered,  and  soon  in  the  glen 
Sits  Colonel  Diinl)ar  in  the  midst  of  his  men. 

The  Chaplain  advances  with  reverent  face, 
Where  lies  a  felled  oak,  he  has  chosen  his  place  ; 
On  the  stump  of  an  ash-tree  the  Bible  he  lays, 
And  they  bow  on  the  grass,  as  he  solemnly  prays. 

Underneath  thine  open  sky, 

Father,  as  we  bend  the  knee. 
May  we  feel  thy  presence  nigh, 

— Nothing  'twixt  our  souls  and  thee  ! 

We  are  weai-y, — cares  and  woes 
Lay  their  weight  on  every  breast, 

And  each  heart  before  thee  knows. 
That  it  sighs  for  inward  rest. 


Thou  canst  lift  this  weight  away, 
Thou  canst  bid  these  sighings  cease  ; 

Thou  canst  walk  these  waves  and  say 
To  their  restless  tossino-s — ''  Peace  !' 


52  A    IllIYMK    UF    TllK    WAR. 

AVe  are  tempted  ; — snares  a])Oinid, — 
Sin  its  treaelierons  nieslies  weaves  : 

And  teni)>tati()ns  strew  ns  rountl, 
Thicker  tlian  the  Autnnm  leaves. 


Midst  these  ]»erils,  mark  <>ur  juith. 

Thou  wh(t  art  '  tlie  lite,  tlie  way 
Rend  eaeli  fatal  wile  that  hath 

Power  to  lead  our  sonls  astrav. 


Prince  of  Peace  I   we  follow  Thee  ! 

Phmt  thy  banner  in  our  sight  : 
Let  th}'  shadowy  legions  be 

Guards  around  our  tents  to-night.'' 


Through  the  aisles  of  the  forest,  tar-stretching  and 

dim 
As  a  cloister'd  Cathedral .  the  notes  of  a  hymn 
Float  tenderly  upward. — now  soft  and  now  clear, 
As    if    twilight     had    silenced    its    lireathing    to 

hear  : 
Now  swelling,  a  Infty.  triumphant  refrain. — • 
Now  sobbin«j:  itself  into  sadness  a^ain. 


A    RHYME   OF   THE   WAR.  53 

The  Bible  is  opened,  and  stillness  profound 

Broods  over  the  listeners  scattered  around  ; 

And  warning,  and  comfort,  and  blessing,  and  balm, 

Distil  from  the  beautiful  Avords  of  the  Psalm. 

Then  simply  and  earnestly  pleading, — his  face 

Lit  up  with  persuasive  and  eloquent  grace, 

The  Chaplain  pours  forth,  from  the  warmth  of  his 

heart. 
His  words  of  entreaty  and  truth,  ere  they  part, 

"  I  see  before  me  valiant  men. 

With  courage  high  and  true, 
Who  fight  as  only  heroes  light. 

And  die,  as  heroes  do. 

Your  serried  ranks  have  never  quailed 

Before  the  battle-shock, 
Whose  maddest  fury  beats  and  breaks 

Like  foam  against  the  rock. 

Ye  "ve  borne  the  deadly  brunt  of  war, 
Through  storm,  and  cold,  and  heat. 

Yet  never  have  ye  turned  your  backs 
Nor  iled  before  defeat. 


54 


A     RHY.MK    OF    THE    WAR. 

Behind  you  lie  your  cheerful  lionies. 

And  all  of  sweet  or  fair. — 
The  only  remnants  earth  has  left 

( )f  Ivlen-life.  are   there. 

Ve  know  that  many  a  once  brip^ht  cheek 
Consuming  care^"  makes  wan  ; 

Ye  know  the  old,  dear  happiness 
That  blest  your  hearths, — is  gone. 

Ye  see  your  comrades  smitten  down. — 
The  young,  the  good,  the  brave. — 

Ye  feel,  the  turf  ye  tread  to-day. 
May  be  to-morrow's  grave. 

Yet  not  a  murmur  meets  the  ear, 

Kor  discontent  has  sway. 
And  not  a  sullen  brow  is  seen. 

Through  all  the  camp  to-day. 

No  Greek,  in  Greece's  palmiest  days. 

His  javelin  ever  threw, 
Impelled  by  more  heroic  zeal. 

Or  nobler  aim  than  vou. 


A    RHYME   OK   THE   WAR.  55 

No  mailed  warrior  ever  bore 

Aloft  his  shining  lance, 
More  proudly  through  the  tales  that  iire 

The  page  of  old  romance. 

Oh  !  soldiers  ! — well  ye  bear  your  part ; 

The  world  awards  its  praise  : 
Be  sure. — this  grandest  tourney  o'er, — 

'Twill  crown  you  with  its  bays! 

But  there's  sublimer  work  than  even 

To  free  your  native  sod  ; 
— Ye  may  be  loyal  to  your  land. 

Yet  traitors  to  your  God  ! 

Ko  Moslem  heaven  for  him  who  falls, 

A  bribed  requital  doles  ; 
And  while  ye  save  your  country, — ye, 

Alas  !  may  lose  your  souls  I 

No  glorious  deeds  can  urge  their  claim, — 

No  merits,  entrance  win, — 
The  pierced  hand  of  Christ  alone, 

Must  freelv  let  vou  in. 


56  A    RHYME    or    THE    WAR. 

Oh  !   sirs  ! — there  lurks  a  fiercer  foe, 
Than  this  that  treads  your  soil, 

Who  springs  from  unseen  ambuscades, 
To  drag  you  as  his  spoil. 

lie  drugs  tlie  lieedless  conscience,  till. 

No  wary  watch  it  keeps. 
And  parleys  with  the  treacheruus  heart, 

While  fast  the  warder  sleeps. 

He  captive  leads  tlie  wavering  will 
With  specious  words,  and  fair, 

And  enters  the  beleaguered  soul. 
And  rules,  a  conqueror  there. 

Will  ye  who  tiing  deliance  forth, 

Against  a  temporal  foe. 
And  rather  die.  than  stoop  to  wear 
.The  chains  tliat  gall  you  so, — 

Will  ye  si.ccumb  beneath  a  ])n\ver. 

That  grasps  at  full  control. 
And  binds  its  helpless  victims  down 

In  servitude  of  soul  ? 


A    RIIYMK    OF    Tin-:    WAR.  ."it 

Xay, — act  like  brave  men,  as  ye  are, — 

Nor  let  the  despot,  sin, 
Wrest  those  immortal  rights  away, 

Which  Christ  has  died  to  win. 


For  Heaven — best  home — true  fatherland, 

Bear  toil,  reproach  and  loss, 
Your  highest  honor, ^ — holiest  name, — 

The  soldiers  of  the  Cross  ! 


A     UHVMl::    OF    TilK    WAR. 


V  IT  1  . 


^'Mv   Doughiss  !    my   cl;irliiiL;- ! — tliere   once  was  a 

time. 
When  we  to  eacli  other  confessed  the  sublime 
And  perfect  sufficiency  love  could  bestow. 
On  the  hearts  that   have  learned  its  completeness 

to  know  : 
We  felt  that  we  too  had  a  well-spring  of  joy, 
That  earthly  convulsions  could  never  destroy, — 
A  mossy,  sealed  fountain,  so  cool  and  s..  bright, 
It  could  solace  the  soul,  let  it  thirst  as  it  might. 

'^  'Tis  easy,  while  happiness  strews  in  our  j^ath. 
The  richest  and  costliest  blessings  it  liatli, 
'Tis  easy  to  say  tliat  no  sorrow,  no  j)ain. 
Could  utterly  beggar  our  spirits  again  : 
*Tis  easy  to  sit  in  the  sunshine,  and  speak 
Of  the   darkness   and   storm,  with   a   smile    (.hi  the 
cheek  ! 


^■••^• 


A    RHYME    OF   THE   WAR.  59 


"'As  hungry  and  cold,  and  Avitli  weariness  spent, 
You  droop  in  your  saddle,  or  crouch  in  your  tent ; 
Can  you  feel  that  the  love  so  entire,  so  true. 
The  love  that  we  dreamed  of, — is  all  things  to  you? 
That  come  what  there  may, — desolation  or  loss, 
The  prick  of  the  thorn,  or  the  weight  of  the  cross — - 
You  can  bear  it, — nor  i'eel  you  are  wholly  bereft. 
While  the  bosom  that  beats  for  you  only,  is  left? 
While  the  birdlings  are  spared  that  have  made  it 

so  blest, 
Can  you  look,  undismayed,  on  the  Avreck  of  the  nest? 


'*'  There's   a  love    that  is    tenderer,   sweeter    than 

this— 
That  is  fuller  of  comfort,  and  blessing,  and  bliss  ; 
That  never  can  fail  us,  whatever  befall — 
Unchanging,  unwearied,  undying,  through  all  : 
We  have  need  of  the   support — the   staff  and  the 

rod  ; — 
Beloved  !  we'll  lean  on  tlie  bosom  of  (lod  ! 


'"•  You  guess  what  I  fain  would  keep  hidden  : — you 

know, 
Ere  now,  that  the  trail  of  the  insolent  foe 


BO  A    RHYME    OF    THE    WAR. 

Leaves  ruin  beliiml  it,  disastrous  and  dire. 

And  hums  tlirou<;li  our  \'allev,  a  ])athway  «tl"  tire. 

— Our  heautit'iil  liome, — ^as  1  write  it,  I  wee]), — 

( )ur  ln-autitul  lionie  is  a  smouldering  licap  I 

And   Maekened.   and    blasted,   and    utIiii,  and  Inr- 

loi'n. 
Its  c-hinmevs  stainl  stark  in  the  mists  <»f  the  nmrn  ! 


'^I  stood  in  my  womanly  hel}>lessness.  weak — 
Thougli    I    felt   a    l)rave    color    was    kindlin--    my 

cheek — 
And  I  plead  hy  the  sacredest  things  of  their  lives — 
By  the  love  that  they  hore  to  their  children, — their 

wives. 
By  the   homes  left  hehind   them,   whusc  joys  they 

had  shared. 
By  tlie   God   that    should   judge    them. — that  mine 

should  be  spared. 

^'As   well    might    1    plead    with    the    whirlwind  to 

stay 
As  it  crashingly  cuts  through  the  forest  its  way  ! 
I  know  that  my  eye  tiashed  a  ])assionate  ire, 
As  thev  scornfullv  flung  me  tlicir  answer  of — tire! 


A    TvlIYME   OF   THE    WAR.  61 

^^  Why  liarrow  your  licart  with  the  grief  and  the 

pain  ? 
Why   ])aint   you   the   picture   that's   scorching  my 

brain  ? 
Why  speak  of  the  night  when  I  stood  on  the  lawn, 
And  watched  the  hist  flame  die  away  in  the  dawn  ? 
'Tis  over, — that  vision  of  terror, — of  woe  ! 
Its  liorrors  I  would  not  recall  ; — let  them  go  ! 
I  am  calm  when  I  think  what  I  suffered  them  for  ; 
I  grudge  not  the  (|Uota  /  pay  to  the  war  ! 


^^But,   Douglass! — deep  down  in  the  core  of  my 

heart. 
There's    a   throbbing,    an    acliing,    that    will    not 

de2:)art  : 
For  memory  mourns,  with  a  wail  of  despair, 
The  loss  of  her  treasures, — the  subtle,  the  rare, 
Precious  things  over  which  she  delighted  to  pore, 
Which  nothing, — ah  !  nothing,  can  ever  restore  ! 

^'The    rose-covered    porch,   where  I    sat    as    your 

bride — 
The  hearth,  wliere  at  twilight  I  leaned  at    your 
side — 
G 


^>2  A    KlIYME    nF    THE    WAK. 

The  low-cushioned  window-scat,  where  I  woukl  lie, 
With  my  head  on  your  knee,  and  look  out  on  the 

sky  :— 
The  chamber  all  holy  with  Invc  and  witli  }»rayer, 
The  motherhood  memories  clustering  there — 
The  vines  that  your  hand  has  delighted  to  train, 
The  trees  that  ijou  planted  ; — Oh  !  never  again 
Can  love  build  us  u])  such  a  bower  of  bliss  : 
Oh  !   never  can  home  be  as  hallou'M  as  this  ! 


'•  Thank  God  I   there's  a  dwelling  not  builded  with 

hands, 
Whose  pearly  foundation,  immovable  stands  ; 
There  struggles,  alarms,  and  disrjuietudes  cease. 
And  the  blissfulest  balm  of  the  spirit  is — peace  ! 
Small  trial  'twill  seem  when  our  perils  are  past. 
And  we  enter  the  house  of  our  Father  at  last, — 
Light  trouble,  that  here,  in  the  night  of  our  stay. 
The  blast  swept  our  wilderness  lodging  away  ! 

'*  The  children — dear  hearts  I — it  is  touching  to  see 
My  Beverly's  beautiful  kindness  to  me  ; 
So  buoyant  his  mein — so  heroic — resigned — 
The  boy  has  the  soul  of  his  lather,  I  find  ! 


A    RHYME    OF    THE    WAR.  (.O 

Kot  a  childish  compkiint  or  regret  have  I  heard, — 
Not  even  from  Archie,  a  })etiihiiit  word  : 
Once  only — a  tear  moistened  Sophy's  bright  cheek  : 
^Papa  has  no  home  noiv !' — "twas  all  she  could  speak. 

^^  A  stranger  I  wander  midst  strangers  ;  and  yet 
I  never, — no,  not  for  a  moment  forget 
That  my  heart  has  a  home, — ^just  as  real,  as  true. 
And  as  warm  as  if  Be-echenhrook  sheltered' me  too. 
God  grant  that  this  refuge  from  sorrow  and  pain — 
This  hlessedest  haven  of  peace,  may  remain  ! 
And,  then,  though  disaster,  still  sharper,  befall, 
I  think  I  can  patiently  bear  with  it  all : 
For  the  rarest,  most  exquisite  bliss  of  my  life 
Is  wrapped   in   a  word.   Douglass   ...   I   am   your 
wife  !" 


64  A    EHYME   OF   TJIE    WAR. 


IX. 


When  liercc  ainl  l"ast-tliroii:2;iiii!;  calami  tics  riisli 
Resistless  as  destiny  o'er  us,  and  crush 
The  life  from  the  (quivering  heart  till  we  feel 
Like  the  victim  whose  body  is  broke  on  the  wheel — 
When  we  think  we  have  touched  the  far  limit  at 

last, 
— One  throe,  and  the  point  of  endurance  is  passed — 
When  we  shivering  hang  on  the  verge  of  despair — 
There  still  is  capacity  left  us  to  bear. 

The  storm  of  the  winter,  the  smile  of  the  Spring, 
Xo  respite,  no  pause,  and  no  hopefulness  bring  ; 
The  demon  of  carnage  still  breathes  his  hot  breath, 
And  fiercely  goes  forward  the  harvest  of  death. 

Days  painfully  drag  their  slow  burden  along  ; 
And  the  jnilse  that  is  beating  so  steady  and  strong, 


A    KIIYME    OF   THE   AVAR.  65 

Stcinds  stillj  as  there  comes,  from  the  echoing  shore 
Of  the  winding  and  clear  Rappahannock,  the  roar 
Of  conflict  so  fell,  that  the  silvery  flood 
Runs  purple  and  rapid  and  ghastly  with  blood. 


— Grand  army  of  martyrs  ! — though  victory  waves 
Them  onward,  her  march  must  be  over  tlieir  graves: 
They  feel  it— they  know  it, — yet  steadier  each 
Close  phalanx  moves  into  the  desperate  breach  : 
Their    step  does  not   falter— their   faith  does  not 

yield,-- 
For  yonder,  supreme  o'er  the  fiercely-fought  field, 
Erect  in  his  leonine  grandeur,  they  see 
The  proud  and  magnificent  calmness  of  Lee  ! 


'Tis  morn — but  the  night  has  brought  Alice  no 

rest : 
The  roof  seems  to  press  like  a  weight  on  her  breast  ;* 
And  she  wanders  forth,  wearily  lifting  her  eye, 
To  seek  for  relief  'neath  the  calm  of  the  sky. 


The  air  of  the  forest  is  spicy  and  sweet. 
And  dreamily  babbles  a  brook  at  lier  feet 
6=*'- 


G6  A    RHYME    OF   THE    WAR. 

Her   cliildrc'ii    ;iio    'round    her.   (uul   sunshine   and 

flowers. 
Try  vainly  to  banish  the  gduoni  of  the  hours. 
"With  a  volume  she  fiiiu  her  wild  tlioughts  would 


J)Ut  her  vision  ean  trace  not  a  line  on  the  l>age. 
And  the  poet's  dear  strains,  once  so  soft  to  her  ear. 
Have  lost  all  their  mystical   power  to  cheer. 

The  evening  approaches — the  i)ressure — the  woe 
Growls  drearer  and  heavier, — yet  she  must  go, 
And  stifle  between  the  dead  walls,  as  she  may. 
The  heart  that  scarce  breathed  in  the  free,  open  day. 

She  reaches  the  dwelling  that  serves  as  her  home  : 
A  horseman  awaits  at  the  entrance  ; — the  foam 
Is  flecking  the  sides  of  his  fast-ridden  steed, 
AVho  pants,  over-worn  with  exhaustion  and  speed  : 
And  Alice  for  support  to  Beverly  clings. 
As  the  soldier  delivers  the  letter  he  brings. 

Her  ashy  lips  move,  but  the  words  do  not  come, 
And  she  stands  in  her  whiteness,  bewildered  and 
dumb  : 


A   RHYME   OF   THE   WAR.  67 

She  turns  to  the  letter  with  hopeless  appeal, 
But  her  fingers  are  helpless  to  loosen  the  seal  : 
She  lifts  her  dim  eyes  w^ith  a  look  of  despair, — 
Her  hands  for  a  moment  are  folded  in  pra3'er  ; 
The  strength  she  has  sought  is  vouchsafed  in  her 

need  : 
— ''I  think  I  can  hear  it  now,  Beverly  .  .  .  read." 

The  boy,  with  the  resolute  nerve  of  a  man. 
And  a  voice  which  he  holds  as  serene  as  he  can. 
Takes  quietly  from  her  the  letter,  and  reads  : — 

^' Dear  Madam, — My  heart  in  its  symj)athy  bleeds 
For  the  pain  that  my  tidings  must  bear  you  :  may 

God 
Most  tenderly  comfort  you,  under  His  rod  ! 

^^This  morning,  at  daybreak,  a  terrible  charge 
Was  made  on  the  enemy's  centre  :  such  large 
And  fresh  reinforcements  were  held  at  his  back. 
He  stoutly  and  stubbornly  met  the  attack. 

'^  Our  cavalry  bore  themselves  splendidly  : — far 
In  front  of  his  line  galloped  Colonel  Dunbar  ; 


^)8  A   RIIY3IE   OF   THE  WAR. 

Erect  ill  his  stirrups, — liis  sword  flashing  high, 
And  the  look  of  a  conqueror  kindling  his  eye, 
His  silvery  voice  rang  aloft  through  the  roar 
Of  tlio  musketry  poured  from  tlie  op})osite  shore : 
— •liememher  the  Valley! — remember  your  wives! 
And  on  to  your  duty,  boys! — on — with  your  lives!' 


'•He  turned,  and  he  paused,  as  lie  uttered  the  call- 
Then  reeled  in  his  seat,  and  fell, — pierced  by  a  ball 


''He   lives   and   he   breathes   yet: — the    surgeons 

declare, 
That   the   balance  is   trembling   'twixt   hope  and 

despair. 
In  liis  blanket  he  lies,  on  the  hospital  floor, — 
So  calm,  you  might  deem  all  his  agony  o'er ; 
And  here,  as  I  write,  on  his  lace  I  can  see 
An  expression  whose  radiance  is  startling  to  me. 
His  faith  is  sublime  : — he  relinquishes  life. 
And  craves  but  one  blessing, — to  look  on  Ids  icifc!" 


The  Chaplain's  recital  is  ended  : — no  vrord 

From  Alice's  white,  breathless  lips  has  been  licard  ; 


A    nilYME    OF    THE    WAR.  69' 

Till,  rousing  herself  from  her  passionless  woe, 
She  simply  and  quietly  says — "■  I  will  go." 

There  are  moments  of  anguish  so  deadly,  so  deep — 
That  numbness  seems  over  the  senses  to  creep. 
With  interposition,  whose  timely  relief, 
Is  an  anodyne-draught  to  the  madness  of  grief. 
Such  mercy  is  meted  to  Alice  ; — her  eye 
That  sees  as  it  saw  not,  is  vacant  and  dry : 
The  billows'  wild  fury  sweeps  over  her  soul, 
And  she  bends   to  the   rush  with   a  passive  con- 
trol. 

Through  the  dusk  of  the  night — through  the  glare 

of  the  day. 
She  urges,  unconscious,  her  desolate  way  : 
One  image  is  ever  her  vision  before, 
— That  blanketed  form  on  the  hospital  iloor  ! 


Her  journey  is  ended  ;  and  yonder  she  sees 

The  spot  where  he  lies,  looming  wliite  through  the 

trees  : 
Her  torpor  dissolves  with  a  shuddering  start. 
And  a  terrible  agony  clutches  lier  heart. 


VO  A    RHYME    OF   THE   WAR. 

The  Chaplain  advaiiCL's  to  meet  lier  : — he  draws 
Her  silently  onward  ; — no  (question — no  pause — 
Her  finger  she  lavs  on  her  lip  ; — if  she  spake. 
•She  knows  that  tlie  spell  that  upholds  her.  would 
hroak. 

'She  has  strengtli  to   go  forward  :   they  enter  the 

door. — ■ 
And  there,  on  the  crowded  and  Iduod-tainted  tloor, 
Close  wrapped  in  his  hlanket,  lies  Douglass: — his 

brow 
Wore  never  a  look  so  seraphic  as  uow  ! 
She  stretches  her  arms  the  dear  form  to  enfold, — 
•God  help  her  !  .  .  .  .  she  shrieks  ....  it  is  silent 

and  cold  ! 


A    RHYME   OF    THE   WAR.  71 


X. 


••'  Break,  my  hearty  and  ease  this  })ain 
Cease  to  throb,  thou  tortured  brain  ; 
Let  me  die, — since  he  is  slain, 

— Slain  in  battle  ! 

Blessed  brow,  that  loved  to  rest 
Its  dear  whiteness  on  my  breast — 
Gor}^  was  the  grass  it  prest, 

— Slain  in  battle  ! 

Oh  !  tliat  still  and  stately  form — 
Never  more  will  it  be  w^arm  : 


Chilled  beneath  that  iron  storm, 

— Slain  in  battle  ! 

Not  a  pillow  for  his  head — 
Not  a  hand  to  smooth  his  bed — 
Not  one  tender  parting  said, 

— Slain  in  battle  ! 


*J2  A    lUIYME    OF    THE    WAR. 

Straightway  from  that  IJoudy  .sod. 
Wlicre  the  trampling  liorsemen  trud- 
Liftcd  to  the  arms  of  God  ; 

— SLain  ill  hatth' ! 

Nut  my  h»ve  to  come  hetweeii. 
With  its  interposing  screen — 
Kaught  of  earth  to  intervene  : 

— Shiin  in  hattk-  ! 

Snatched  the  purple  hillows  o'er. 
Through  the  iiendish  rage  and  mar. 
To  the  far  and  peaceful  shore  ; 

— Slain  in  hattle  I 

Nunc  demitte — thus  I  pray — 
"What  else  left  for  me  to  say. 
Since  my  life  is  reft  away? 

—Slain  in  hattle! 

Let  me  die,  oh  I  God  '.—the  dart 
Eankles  deep  within  my  heart. — 
Hope,  and  joy.  and  peace,  depart  : 
— Slain  in  hattle  !' 


A   RHYME    OF   THE   WAR.  73 

'Tis    thus    through    her    days    and    lier    nights    of 

despair, 
Her  months  of  bereavement  so  hitter  to  hear, 
That  Alice  moans  ever.     Ah  !  little  they  know, 
Who  look  on  that  brow,  still  and  white  as  the  snow, 
Who    watch — but  in   vain — for   the   sigh   or   the 

tear. 
That  only  comes  thick  when  no  mortal  is  near, — 
Who    whisper — ^'  How  gently   she    bends    to    the 

rod!" 
Because  all  her  heart-break  is  kept  for  her  God, — 
Ah  !  little  they  know  of  the  tempests  that  roll 
Their  desolate    floods   through  the    depths  of  her 

soul ! 

Afar  in  our  sunshiny  homes  on  the  shore, 
We  heed  not  how  wildly  the  billows  may  roar  ; 
We  smile  at  our  firesides,  happy  and  free. 
While  the  rich-freighted  argosy  founders  at  sea  ! 
Though  wTapped  in  the  w^eeds  of  her  widowhood, 

pale, — 
Though  life  seems  all  sunless  and  dim  through  the 

veil 
That  drearily  shadows  her  sorrowful  brow. — 
Is  the  cause  of  her  country  less  dear  to  her  now? 
7 


74  A    RHYME    OF    THE    AVAR. 

Does  the  patriot-fltamc  in  lier  heart  cease  to  stir, — 
Does  she  feel  that  the  conflict  is  over  for  her  ? 
Because  the  red  war-tide  has  deluged  her  o'er, — 
Has  wreaked  its  wild  wrath,  and  can  harm  her  no 

more, — 
Does  slie  stand,  self-ahsorbed,  on  tlie  wreck  she  has 

braved, 
Nor  care  if  her  country  be  lost  or  be  saved? 

By    her    pride    in    tlic    soil   tliat   has    given    her 

birth— 
By  her  tenderest  memories  garnered  on  earth — 
By  the  legacy  blood-bought  and  precious,  which 

she 
Would  leave  to  her  children — the  right  to  be  free, — 
By  the  altar  where   once  rose  the  hymn  and  the 

prayer  ; 
By  the  home  that  lies  scarred  in  its  solitude  there, — 
By  the  pangs  she  has  suffered, — the  ills  she  has 

borne, — 
By   the   desolate   exile   through   which    she   must 

mourn, — 
By  the  struggles  that  hallow  this  fair  Southern  sod, 
By  the  vows   she  has  breathed  in  the  ear  of  her 

God,— 


A    RUYME    OF    THE    WAR.  75 

By  the   blood  of  the   heart  that  she  worshipped, — 

the  life 
That  enfolded  her  own  ;  by  her  love,  as  his  wife  ; 
By  his  death  on  the  battle-field,  gallantly  brave, — 
By  the  shadow  that  ever  will  wrap  her — his  grave — 
By  the  faith  she  reposes,  oh  !  Father  !  in  Thee, 
She  claims  that  her  glorious  South  must  be  free  ! 


76  VIK(;iNIA 


VIRGLMA. 

A   SONNET. 

Grandly  tliou  fillest  the  world's  eye  to-day. 

My  i)roiid  Virginia !  When  the  gage  was  thrown— 
The  deadly  gage  of  battle — thou,  alone, 

Strong  in  thy  self-control,  didst  stoop  to  lay 

The  olive-branch  thereon,  and  calmly  pray 

We  might  have  peace,  the  rather.    When  the  foe 
Turned  scornfully  upon  thee, — bade  thee  go. 

And  whistled  up  his  war-hounds,  then — the  way 
Of  duty  full  before  thee,- — thou  didst  spring 
Into  the  centre  of  t-lie  martial  ring — 

Thy  brave  blood  boiling,  and  thy  glorious  eye, 
Shot  with  heroic  fire,  and  swear  to  claim 
Sublimest  victory  in  God's  own  name, — 

Or,  wrapped  in  robes  of  martyrdom. — to  die  ! 


JACKSON.  TT 


JACKSON. 

A   SOXXET. 

Thank  God  for  such  a  Hero  ! — Fearless  hohl 
His  diamond  character  beneath  the  sun. 
And  brighter  scintillations,  one  by  one, 

Oome  flashing  from  it.     Never  knight  of  old 

Wore  on  serener  brow,  so  calm,  yet  bold. 
Diviner  courage  :   never  martyr  knew 
Trust    more    sublime, — nor    patriot,    zeal    more 
true, — 

Kor  saint,  self-abnegation  of  a  mould 

Touched  with  profounder  beauty.     All  the  rare, 

Clear,  starry  points  of  light,  that  gave  his  soul 
Such  lambent  lustre,  owned  but  one  sole  aim, — 
Not  for  himself,  nor  yet  his  country's  fame. 

These  glories  shone  :  he  kept  the  clustered  whole 
A  jewel  for  the  crown  that  Christ  shall  wear  ! 
7* 


78  I  URGE    FOR    A.SIIBY. 


DIRGE    FOR    ASHBY 


Heard  ye  tliat  thrilling  word- 
Accent  of  dread — 
Flash  like  a  thunderbolt, 
'     Bowing  each  head — 
Crash  through  the  battle  dun, 
Over  the  booming  gun — 
'•  AsJiby,  our  bravest  one, — 
Ashhy  is  dead!" 


Saw  ye  the  veterans — 
Hearts  that  had  known 

Never  a  quail  of  fear, 
Xever  a  groan — 

Sob  'mid  the  fight  they  \\:in, 

— Tears  their  stern  eyes  within 

*"•  Ashby,  our  Paladin, 
Ashbv  is  2:one  !" 


DIRGE   FOR   ASHBY.  Y9 

Dash, — clash  the  tear  away — 

Crush  down  the  pain  ! 
^^  Dulce  et  decus,"  he 

Fittest  refrain  ! 
Why  should  the  dreary  pall 
Kound  him  he  flung  at  all  ? 
Did  not  our  hero  fall 

Gallantly  slain  ? 

Catch  the  last  word  of  cheer 

Dropt  from  his  tongue  ; 
Over  the  volley's  din, 

Loud  he  it  rung — 
' ''  FolloiD  me !  follow  me  /' ' — 
Soldier,  oh  !  could  there  he 
P^an  or  dirge  for  thee. 

Loftier  sung  ! 

Bold  as  the  Lion-heart, 

Dauntless  and  hrave  ; 
Knightly  as  knightliest 

Bayard  could  crave  ; 
Sweet  with  all  Sidney's  grace — 
Tender  as  Hampden's  face — 
Who — who  shall  fill  the  space 

Void  hy  his  grave  ? 


80  MIKJK    Full    ASHHY. 

'Tis  not  one  broken  heart. 
Wild  with  dismay  ; 

Crazed  with  her  agony. 
Weeps  o'er  his  clay  : 

Ah  !  from  a  thousand  eyes 

Flow  the  pure  tears  that  rise  ; 

Widowed  Virginia  lies 
Stricken  to-dav  I 


Yet — thouo'h  tliat  thrillino-  word 

Accent  of  dread — 
Falls  like  a  thunderholt. 

Bowing  each  head — 
Heroes  !  be  battle  done 
Bravelier  every  one. 
Kerved  by  the  thought  alone — 

AsJthi/  is  dead .' 


STONEWALL    JACKSON's    (iRAVE.  81 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  GRAVE.* 


A  simple,  sodded  mound  of  earth, 

Without  a  line  above  it ; 
With  only  daily  votive  flowers 

To  prove  that  any  love  it : 
The  token  flag  that  silently 

Each  breeze's  visit  numbers, 
Alone  keeps  martial  ward  above 

The  hero's  dreamless  slumbers. 

No  name  ? — no  record  ?     Ask  the  world  ; 

The  world  has  read  his  story — • 
If  all  its  annals  can  unfold 

A  prouder  tale  of  glory  : — 
If  ever  merely  human  life 

Hath  taught  diviner  moral, — 
If  ever  round  a  worthier  brow 

Was  twined  a  purer  laurel ! 

'"'  In  the  month  of  June  the  singuhar  spectacle  was  presented  at 
Lexington,  Va.,  of  two  hostile  armies,  in  turn,  reverently  visiting 
Jackson's  grave. 


82  .sToxKWALr.  .iack.-on's  crave. 

A  twolveniontli  only,  since  his  sword 

Went  flashing  through  tlie  battle — 
A  twelvemonth  only^  since  his  ear 

Heard  war's  kst  deadly  rattle — 
And  yet,  have  countless  pilgrim-feet 

The  pilgrim's  guerdon  paid  him. 
And  weeping  Avomen  come  to  see 

The  place  where  they  have  laid  him. 

Contending  armies  bring,  in  turn. 

Their  meed  of  praise  or  honor. 
And  Pallas  here  has  paused  to  bind 

The  cypress  wreath  upon  her  : 
It  seems  a  holy  sepulchre, 

Whose  sanctities  can  waken 
Alike  the  love  of  friend  or  foe, — 

Of  Christian  or  of  pagan. 

They  come  to  own  his  high  emprise. 

'  W^ho  fled  in  frantic  masses. 
Before  the  glittering  bayonet 

That  triumphed  at  Manassas  : 
Who  witnessed  Kernstown's  fearful  odds, 

As  on  their  ranks  he  thundered. 
Defiant  as  the  storied  Greek, 

Amid  his  brave  three  hundred  ! 


STONEWALL   JACKSON 'S   GRAVE.  83 

They  well  recall  the  tiger  spring, 

The  Avise  retreat,  the  rally, 
The  tireless  march,  the  fierce  pursuit. 

Through  many  a  mountain  valley  : 
Cross  Keys  unlock  new  paths  to  fame. 

And  Port  Republic's  story 
Wrests  from  his  ever-vanquish'cl  foes, 

Strange  tributes  to  his  glory. 

Cold  Harbor  rises  to  their  view, — 

The  Cedars'  gloom  is  o'er  them  ; 
Antietam's  rough  and  rugged  heights^, 

Stretch  mockingly  before  them  : 
The  lurid  flames  of  Fredericksburg    , 

Right  grimly  they  remember, 
That  lit  the  frozen  night's  retreat, 

That  wintry-wild  December  ! 

The  largess  of  their  praise  is  flung 

With  bounty,  rare  and  regal  ; 
— Is  it  because  the  vulture  fears 

No  longer  the  dead  eagle  ? 
Nay,  rather  far  accept  it  thus, — 

An  homage  true  and  tender, 
As  soldier  unto  soldier's  worth, — 

As  brave  to  brave  will  render. 


84  STOXEWALL    JACKSOX'S    (JRAVE. 

But  who  shall  weigh  tlie  wordless  grief 

That  leaves  in  tears  its  traces. 
As  round  tlieir  leader  crowd  again. 

The  hronzed  and  veteran  faces  I 
The  ''  Old  Brigade"  he  loved  so  well— 

The  mountain  men,  who  bound  him 
With  bays  of  their  own  winning,  ere 

A  tardier  fame  had  crowned  him  ; 

The  legions  who  had  seen  his  glance 

Across  the  carnage  flashing, 
And  thrilled  to  catch  his  ringing  ^^  cliarge' 

Above  the  volley  crashing  ; — 
Who  oft  had  watched  the  lifted  liand. 

The  inward  trust  betraying, 
And  felt  their  courage  grow  sublime. 

While  they  beheld  him  praying  ! 

Good  knights  and  true  as  ever  drew 

Their  swords  with  knightly  Roland  ; 
Or  died  at  Sobieski's  side. 

For  love  of  martyr'd  Poland  ; 
Or  knelt  with  Cromwell's  Ironsides  ; 

Or  sang  with  brave  Gustavus  : 
Or  on  the  plain  of  Austerlitz, 

Breathed  out  their  dvino;  ave.s  ! 


STOXE\VALL   JACKSOX's   GRAVE.  85 

Rare  fame !  rare  name ! — If  chanted  praise. 

With  all  the  world  to  listen , — 
If  pride  that  swells  a  nation's  soul, — 

If  foemen's  tears  that  glisten, — 
If  pilgrims'  shrining  love, — if  grief 

Which  nought  may  soothe  or  sever, — 
If  THESE  can  consecrate, — this  spot 

Is  sacred  ground  forever  ! 


8C  WIIEX    THE   WAR    IS    OVER. 


AVHEN  THE  WA1{  IS  OVER, 


A   CHRISTMAS   LAY 


All !  the  happy  Christmas  times  ! 

Times  we  all  remember  ; — 
Times  that  flung  a  ruddy  glow 

O'er  the  gray  December  ; — 
Will  they  never  come  again. 

With  their  song  and  story? 
Kever  wear  a  remnant  more 

Of  their  olden  glory  ? 
Must  the  little  children  miss 

Still  the  festal  token  V 
Must  their  realm  of  young  romance 

All  he  marred  and  broken  ? 
Must  the  mother  promise  on. 

"While  her  smiles  dissemble. 
And  she  speaks  right  quietly. 

Lest  her  voice  should  tremlile  :  — 


WHEN   THE   WAR   IS   OVER.  87 

''  Darlings  !  wait  till  lather  comes — 

Wait — and  w^e'll  discover 
Never  were  such  Christmas  times, 

When  the  war  is  over  !" 


II. 

Underneath  the  midnight  sky. 

Bright  w4th  starry  beauty. 
Sad,  the  shivering  sentinel 

Treads  his  round  of  duty  : 
For  his  thoughts  are  far  away, 

Far  from  strife  and  battle, 
As  he  listens  dreamingly. 

To  his  baby's  prattle  ; — 
As  he  clasps  his  sobbing  wife. 

Wild  wdth  sudden  gladness. 
Kisses  all  her  tears  away — 

Chides  her  looks  of  sadness — 
Talks  of  Christmas  nights  to  come, — 

And  his  step  grows  lighter. 
Whispering,  while  his  stiffening  hand 

Grasps  his  musket  tighter  : — 


WHEN'    THE    WAR    IS    OVER. 

'' Patience,  level — kee])  lieart  I  keep  liope! 

To  your  weary  rovei-. 
What  a  liome  our  liume  will  Itc. 

When  the  war  is  r»ver  !" 


III. 

By  the  twilight  Christmas  tire. 

All  her  senses  laden 
With  a  weight  of  tenderness. 

Sits  the  musinc:  maiden  : 
From  the  parlor's  cheerful  hlaze. 

Far  her  visions  wander. 
To  the  white  tent  gleaming  bright, 

On  the  hill-side  yonder. 
Buoyant  in  her  brave,  young  love. 

Flushed  with  patriot  honour, 
No  misgiving,  no  fond  fear, 

Flings  its  shade  upon  her. 
Though  no  mortal  soul  can  know 

Half  the  love  she  bears  him. 
Proudly,  for  her  country's  sake, 

From  her  heart  she  spares  him. 


WHEN    THE    WAR   IS   OVER.  89 

— God  be  thanked  ! — she  does  not  dream. 

That  her  gallant  lover 
Will  be  in  a  soldier's  grave, 

When  the  war  is  over  ! 


IV. 

'Midst  the  turmoil  and  the  strife 

Of  the  war-tide's  rushing, 
Every  heart  its  sej)arate  woe 

In  its  depths  is  hushing. 
Who  has  time  for  tears,  when  blood 

All  the  land  is  steeping  ? 
— In  our  poverty  we  grudge 

Even  the  waste  of  weeping  ! 
But  when  quiet  comes  again. 

And  the  bands,  long  broken. 
Gather  round  the  hearth,  and  breathe 

Names  now  seldom  spoken — 
Then  we'll  miss  the  j)recious  links — 

Mourn  the  empty  places — 
Read  the  hopeless  ^^  Nevermore," 

In  each  other's  faces  ! 
8* 


90  WIIEX    THE    WAR    IS    OVER. 

— Oh  !  what  aching.  anguisliM  hearts 
O'er  kme  graves  will  hover. 

With  a  new,  fresh  sense  of  pain, 
AVhen  the  war  is  over  1 


Stern  endurance,  bitterer  still. 

Sharp  with  self-denial. 
Fraught  with  loftier  sacrifice. 

Fuller  far  of  trial — 
Strews  our  flinty  path  of  thorns- 
Marks  our  bloody  story — 
Fits  us  for  the  victor's  palm — 

Weaves  our  robe  of  glory  I 
Shall  we  faint  with  God  above, 

And  His  strong  arm  under — 
And  the  cold  world  gazing  on. 

In  a  maze  of  wonder  y 
Xo  !  with  more  resistless  march, 

More  resolved  endeavor. 
Press  we  onward — struggle  still, 

Fio-ht  and  win  forever  ! 


WHEN    THE    WAR    LS    OVER. 


91 


— Holy  peace  will  heal  all  ills, 

Joy  all  losses  cover, 
Eaptiires  rend  our  Southern  skies, 

When  the  war  is  over  ! 


92  VIRGINIA    CAl'TA. 

VIRGINIA    CATTA. 

ATKIL    9th,    1865. 

I. 

Unconquered  ca})tivc' ! — close  thine  eye, 
And  draw  the  ashen  sackcloth  o'er, 
And  in  thy  speechless  woe  deplore 

The  fate  that  would  not  let  thee  die  ! 

II. 

The  arm  that  wore  the  shield,  strip  hare  ; 
The  hand  that  held  the  martial  rein, 
And  hurled  the  spear  on  many  a  plain — 

Stretch — till  they  clasp  the  shackles  there  ! 

III. 

The  foot  that  once  could  crush  the  crown, 
Must  drag  the  fetters,  till  it  bleed 
Beneath  their  weight : — thou  dost  not  need 

It  now,  to  tread  the  tyrant  down. 


VIRGINIA   CAPTA.  93 

lY. 

Thou  thought' st  him  vanquish' d — boastful  trust  ! 

— His  lance,  in  twain — his  sword,  a  wreck — 

But  with  his  heel  upon  thy  neck, 
He  holds  thee  prostrate  in  the  dust ! 


Eend  though  thou  must,  beneath  his  will. 
Let  not  one  abject  moan  have  place  ; 
But  with  majestic,  silent  grace. 

Maintain  thy  regal  bearing  still. 


YI. 

Look  back  through  all  thy  storied  past. 
And  sit  erect  in  conscious  pride  : — 
Xo  grander  heroes  ever  died — 

No  sterner,  battled  to  the  last ! 

Weep,  if  thou  wilt,  with  proud,  sad  mein. 
Thy  blasted  hopes — thy  peace  undone,- 
Yet  brave,  live  on, — nor  seek  to  shun 

Thy  fate,  like  Egypt's  conquer' d  Queen. 


94  VIRGINIA    CAPTA. 

Yin. 

Though  forced  a  captive's  place  to  liil, 
In  the  triumplial  traiiij — yet  tliere 
Suj^erbly,  like  Zenobia,  wear 

Thy  chains, —  Virginia  Victrix  still  ! 


\ 


^: 


'•:^ 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
887 


